


Pet Names

by Cyranodebergerac



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Pet Names, Pining, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28911840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyranodebergerac/pseuds/Cyranodebergerac
Summary: Dean calls you kitten and princess and sweetheart and it's just... too much.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Other(s), Dean Winchester/You
Kudos: 34





	Pet Names

Right off the bat, Dean was insistent on calling you anything but your proper name. Honestly, it never bothered you because he could call you whatever the hell he wanted as long as every time he did, he shot you that goofy smile that made your knees feel a little rubbery... You were also vaguely ashamed to admit that they made you feel special. 

… Jesus. Let’s forget how pathetic that sounded in your head. 

It had started with “sweetheart”, a nickname that Dean shot around pretty thoughtlessly. From there it progressed to other cutesy terms of the endearment: princess, angel, darling, cupcake, among others. And no nickname was too ridiculous or saccharine; it was as if he had made it his personal mission to find out which one would make you blush the brightest. 

It didn’t take long to figure out that his pet names wouldn’t do much to help strengthen your resolve to absolutely not fall head over heels in love with him. It took almost no thought at all to arrive at the conclusion that doing so would be bad. Very bad. Hunting with Sam and Dean was the greatest stroke of luck that life had ever afforded you. One you weren’t going to readily surrender for a one-nighter with Dean, regardless of the fact that even a single night would probably be heaven on earth for you. But one night would never be enough. You’d rather be around him - both of them - platonically every day than have Dean for one night and then never again. You wouldn’t be able to deal with that. As good as you were at stifling your feelings, stomping them down to deal with another day, there was no way you’d be able to feel his hands on your skin and his lips at your neck, him nestled inside you and then be able to forget it when he undoubtedly found another tail to chase. Dean would ruin you. 

A hunt gone right led to you and the boys celebrating in a hotel bar. A nice place that you sprung the difference for so that you could take advantage of the in-room tub with jets (!!!). 

Dean and Sam were talking about past hunts in a heartwarmingly lighthearted way that made you wish you could see them like this more often, all playful shoves and ‘dude!’s and hearty laughter. In between regaling you with stories you’d heard more times than you could count (not that you ever minded listening to your boys talk), Dean would look your way, sometimes smiling, sometimes worrying his lower lip with his teeth like he was contemplating something about you. You’d return his little glances in kind, emboldened by the adrenaline of a job well done and a couple of drinks. 

Goddamn though, if he kept on like this throughout the night, you were a freakin goner. There was no hope. He might as well be verbally propositioning you for how acutely affected you were by his attention.

The boys had now arrived on the topic of a past pool hustle, and were debating about who sunk the winning shot and scored them the alarmingly large pot. They did their “bitch” and “jerk” bit before Sam held his hands up in surrender and stood, saying, “Whatever, dude. I need to take a leak. Order me another beer, would ya?”

You polished off the remainder of your drink, overcome with contentedness as you chuckled at their antics, wondering how you ever got lucky enough to know the Winchester boys. Dean sat directly across from you, cradling his near-empty pint glass in both his hands. You met his eyes and sunk your teeth into your lower lip a little on one side, the other curling into a small smile without you really realizing. You tilted your head a bit and looked over at him through your lashes in a way that sober you would find borderline too flirtatious. Dean seemed to notice too and sat up a bit straighter, gaze going a little darker. That about did you in, and you tried to discreetly suck in a breath to settle your heart rate. 

“Hey, kitten,” he said, his tone going soft, voice deliciously gravelly, maybe from laughing too hard with Sam. The sound of it travelled low in your stomach and warmed you in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with alcohol (and holy crap - kitten?! Really? That was sexual as hell, you couldn’t be the only one thinking it). 

“Hey, Deano,” you said sweetly, managing to maintain some semblance of composure despite the positively intoxicating trifecta of excitement, alcohol, and Dean’s eyes on you.

“You look amazing, sweetness,” he said, all charm and smiles as if he hadn’t been arguing (albeit playfully) with Sam not 1 minute prior. 

Holy.   
Shit. 

That’s it. Stick a fork in you; you’re freakin done. DONE. It took everything in you to not lunge across the table and kiss his perfect mouth then and there. You felt yourself grin at him, about 1000% sure that you looked like a freakin fool right now with your face all warm and red. 

“Not lookin too bad yourself there, Winchester,” you quipped, noting happily that your cheeks felt slightly sore from all the smiling you were doing tonight.

“Never seen that dress on you before,” he continued, looking you up and down in a way that made you feel sexy as hell, before setting his hand down on the tabletop, just a twitch away from where your own hand was resting. You full on sucked your entire bottom lip into your mouth to keep your grin from splitting your face, and studied the space between his fingers and yours, contemplating hard about closing the gap. 

“Mm, I gotta say, kitten, you’re makin a guy feel-… mmph,” he stopped mid sentence and grinned sheepishly, looking like he had just barely managed to catch himself before spilling state secrets. He chuckled a little before saying, “Anyway, I got half a mind to put my coat on you to keep the dogs away.” 

“Mmm,” you murmured in response to his almost-admission. You had reached the point of no return, and you weren't even surprised that the sound that came out of your mouth was half-way between a frustrated groan and a breathy moan. “I been, uh, saving it for a special occasion,” you continued as your cheeks burned something fierce, just to keep the banter going while your index and middle finger did a contemplative tap dance on the wood next to his.

He leaned across the table toward you a little, “Is tonight a special occasion?” 

“Might be.”

Dean shot you a look that was all provocation and suggestion and you chewed on your tongue, grappling with the bothersome task of stringing words together in response, his fingers now fluttering towards yours seemingly unconsciously. 

And that was the last sign you needed; you took this moment to throw caution to the wind while going down a road at 100 miles an hour towards dreams that you thought would never become reality. Damn everything else, and hell, maybe you could Jamie Foxx it and blame it on the alcohol if this didn’t work out the way you hoped. You reached forward and twined your fingers with his. Dean closed his eyes for a beat, his brow furrowed as if wrestling with himself internally.

When he opened them again, he looked at you all hunter serious, like a hard to hit target that had suddenly and serendipitously fallen directly into his line of sight, and his expression was sharp intent and predatory. It sent a shiver down your spine and you had to subtly tilt your head back as if to shake off the overwhelming sensation. 

Neither of you seemed to notice Sam on his way back to table until he was practically standing beside it. 

“That bathroom is swanky as hell, guys. Freakin washcloths instead of paper towels. We’re living the dream here,” Sam said. 

When he heard his brother’s voice, whatever trance that had descended on Dean seemed to lift and he practically yanked his hand from yours, dropping it back into his lap, with a look on his face that you couldn’t name.

“Dude, where’s my beer?,” Sam questioned, picking up his empty glass and making motions to head over to the bar, “Guess I’ll get it myself.”

“No!,” Dean practically shouted, shuffling to stand and grabbing the glass from his brother’s hands, “I’ll get it. Kitte- uh, sweetheart.. you want any-? You know what, I’ll just get you somethin anyway. Back in a flash.” 

Sam slid back into the booth and stared after Dean saying, “What’s with him?”

Sam, bless his tipsy soul, thankfully did not notice the few calming breaths that you had to take before shrugging and shaking your head. The two of you sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, while Sam perused something on his phone, and you used the quiet to think about the gears you had possibly just set in motion by letting yourself be too forward. Fuck. Had you fucked it all up? How much of this could you repair with a quick “it was the alcohol”? 

“Kid,” you heard Sam call and you damned him a little in your head too for his nicknames. Nicknames are what got you in this mess in the first place! Maybe it was time you demanded that everyone call you by your full name every time they addressed you. That’d keep your stupid heart safe. 

“Yeah, Sammy?”

“You alright? You look a little, uh, distressed,” he asked.

“Must be the alcohol,” you dismissed, pushing your empty glass to the edge of the table. 

You let yourself look over to the bar and immediately regretted it; Dean was leaning up against it while a pretty bartender was preparing a drink. He was smiling and god he might as well have gutted you with a knife because it was the same smile he had given you just moments ago. It really was that easy for him. The bartender placed a shooter in front of him and prepared one for herself as they continued to chat. They toasted and downed the shots together. She held a hand up to her mouth as if bothered by the taste and grimaced a little, and that meant she was either a bad bartender or trying to snake more time with Dean. He must have made a comment about it ‘cause they laughed together. You watched their exchange for a little bit longer before deciding to devote your attentions to Sam's hands as he tapped away on his phone. 

You don't know how much time had passed before Sam cleared his throat and said, “you sure you're okay? You've got your thinking face on” he paused and smiled a little then, trying to distract you from whatever you were focusing too hard on, “don't want you to hurt yourself.”

You smiled good-naturedly at him, appreciating his concern, whatever alcohol remaining in your system keeping your feelings running amuck, and gestured half-heartedly over to Dean and the pretty bartender.

Sam's smile faded and he understood, of course he understood. Sam leaned on his forearms on the tabletop and cupped his hands over yours in a comforting gesture. 

“I dunno, kiddo. Maybe you should tell him?,” Sam suggested quietly, leaning his head towards yours conspiratorially. As if Dean could overhear from where he was, as if he could be paid to be distracted from the bartender’s curve hugging black dress and pretty eyes. 

“I mean, fuck,” you began, “I thought I just did. You missed it but there was a moment with the pet names and the dress and ugh, Sammy, I freakin grabbed his hand.” 

You were rambling a bit as you did when you were ashamed of something and Sam’s features continued to soften. You went to tug your hands from his so that you could bury your face in them to hide your embarrassment, but he held them in place.

Sam tried to defend his brother, “he uh, you know he doesn't care abo-” he cut himself off as if rethinking telling you that Dean didn't care about the girls he slept with; that would only concrete the idea in your head that Dean would never commit to anyone (read: you). 

“You know what I mean, kid. You're special to him, to us, you gotta know that,” he finished, looking at you with earnest. 

You did know that, but you still had to resist the urge to pout pitifully. 

Dean returned with a beer in each hand and the pretty bartender in tow. She was carrying something pink in a martini glass with a sugared rim on a tray. You saw Dean eye Sam’s hands over yours and you were sure Sam did too, but instead of recoiling like Dean had done earlier, Sam offered you a reassuring squeeze before drawing his hands back to his side of the table. 

“Alright, sweetheart,” Dean said, addressing the bartender (you resolutely fought the urge to scowl at her), “what you got is for my friend here.” 

Friend. Ugh, you could swear that her smile grew when she heard the word. 

Sweetheart set the drink down in front of you as Dean settled in beside Sam, smiling up at her. 

“Thanks for the help, kitten,” Dean said to her. In the span of a few seconds, you felt your eyes widen and your chest constrict. You vaguely registered the halfway mortified expression on Dean’s face, almost as if he understood the magnitude of his slip up. 

Kitten said something to Dean while pulling a napkin out of her apron pocket and sliding it over to him, she might have said something to the effect of “I get off at midnight tonight”, but you weren't paying too much attention at this point. 

Instead you were running through every nanosecond of the interaction between you and Dean in your head. Inwardly, you were cringing. You had just made an ass out of yourself. Clearly, Dean was not interested. Or at least not interested in anything with you beyond a hook-up. 

Sam must have noticed your discomfort and offered an out, “hey, didn't you say you needed to give your friend a call?” 

You looked over at him, hoping you were clearly expressing the immense amount of gratitude you felt toward him, and said, “yeah, you're right. No time like the present.” You pushed your untouched cocktail away from yourself, saying, “I think I've probably had a little too much to drink anyway.” 

You mentally patted yourself on the back for that one. Gotta build a story to sell when you somewhere down the line tell Dean that it was the alcohol that fueled the exchange between the two of you, a mistake. 

“You gonna turn in already?,” Dean asked and his face looked like he wished you wouldn't and you wanted to shake him. How could he look at you with his eyes all lit up like you were the only girl in his world when he could so easily call someone else your nicknames? So much for special. 

“‘Fraid so, dude,” you said, mentally trying to distance yourself from the idea of Dean, and from all of his cutesy nicknames. You stood up and smoothed your dress down. You did not fail to notice Dean’s eyes following the movement of your hands. You bit your lip again before turning on your heel. “Night, boys,” you called over your shoulder, waving vaguely back in their direction. 

You shot a call to a friend you had been meaning to check in with in a while, just so you wouldn’t be a liar, per se. She didn't answer so you left a quick message as you let yourself into your hotel room. You kicked your shoes off, let your hair down and flopped face first into the luxurious right-out-of-a-catalog-white-down-covered bed. And just because you're a glutton for punishment, you thought about what it would have been like to wake up beside Dean in this bed. The time you had spent hunting with them meant close quarters all the time, so suffice it to say you’d seen a lot of Dean, and there was not a complaint to be had. But it would have been different to wake up beside him beside him, maybe tucked into his bare chest, listening to him breathe. It was (or would have been, rather) different from waking up in the same motel room as him and Sam, or waking up in the Impala together after a rough night. When Dean slept, he was warm and quiet and unguarded, and the sight of him would always endear him to you even more. Sharing a bed with him, curled into him, and being able to enjoy his presence in the quiet moments of the morning and to own the moment, have it be yours and his, having him be yours… Your stomach did impressive somersaults just thinking about it. You buried your face in the comforter and groaned out loud before telling yourself, “Get a grip, you freakin idiot.”

\------

“What’s up with her?,” Dean asked sliding into your now vacated spot across from Sam. 

Sam looked equal parts amused and contemplative, like he almost shouldn’t answer the question before he said, “C’mon, Dean, seriously?”

“C’mon, Dean, seriously, what, Sam?,” he mocked in response.

“Why do you have to flirt with anything in a skirt? We were having a good night,” Sam answered.

“I didn’t flirt with her,” he defended, looking indignant, “okay, well, maybe a little.”

Sam scoffed and Dean gave him a hard stare in return as if to say well, that’s pretty par for the course with me. Why is anyone surprised?

“Do you agree that she’s special?,” Sam asked sitting back against the booth as if getting ready to give his brother the low-down. Dean didn’t even need to think about which girl Sam was talking about; when he heard the word special, only your face came to mind. He thought that was the stupidest question ever, one that did not warrant an answer, so instead he rolled his eyes at his brother and drank deep from his beer. Sam wasn’t gonna let him get away with not answering the question though so he just stayed quiet, quirked an eyebrow, and waited. 

“Yeah, dude, what the hell. She’s special, okay? You know that, I know that. And what?”

“So start freakin actin like it, man,” Sam challenged.

“What the hell do you mean?” 

“Christ, Dean,” he replied, “Don’t be an idiot. Your skull can’t possibly be this thick.”

Sam breathed out an exasperated laugh at the bewildered look on Dean’s face, like suddenly a veil had been lifted, and the pieces were falling together. 

“So,” he began slowly, sitting back in his seat, “She, uh- she likes me?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Sam said, mostly serious; it really wasn’t his place. If Dean managed to finally (FINALLY) put the pieces together, that was one thing, but outing you outright was something else entirely and he wouldn’t betray your friendship like that. 

“Hm,” Dean murmured thoughtfully, looking pleased and throwing back the remainder of his beer, “I think I may-… I think I should turn in, too.” 

Sam scowled, “I seriously hope you guys don’t start acting gross around me.”

“No promises, Sammy,” Dean smirked, tossing some cash on the table before turning tail and heading to the elevators, leaving Sam shaking his head. 

\------

Dean knocked on your hotel room door before remembering that the concierge had given you guys two key cards for each room, and that you had handed one over to the boys when they gave you one of theirs. He fished around in his pockets before finding the card keys and trying both of them one at a time. The second key made the little light flash green and he pushed the heavy door open slowly, rapping his knuckles on the wood to signal his arrival. 

“Hey, princess? It’s me,” he called, peeking his head around. 

When he didn’t see you, he let himself all the way into the room and let the door shut behind him. Dean heard the rhythmic thrum of the bass line of a song and figured you hadn’t heard him over the music you were playing. He rounded the corner and was met by the sight of you standing beside the king sized bed with your back to him. You were dressed in black lace panties with a matching bra and nothing else. (insert D’s thoughts of past encounters here, similar to above reader’s thoughts?) He felt his blood rush south and tried thinking of something unsexy to keep from groaning out loud. A couple long beats had passed where Dean stood rooted in place silently, attempting to regain composure, and you still hadn’t noticed his presence; so much for hunter instincts. You had your hair wrapped up in a towel and were leisurely digging through your duffel bag for something to wear he guessed. You swayed and rolled your hips a little to the rhythm of some song that Dean usually hated, but couldn’t find the heart to at the moment. 

To avoid feeling like even more of creep than he already did, Dean decided to announce himself again, this time giving a couple of short coughs. You startled and whipped around so fast that your towel fell out of place and dropped unceremoniously to the floor. In the process of turning, you had also pulled your beretta 92G out of your bag, switched the safety off, and cocked it, hand steady and barrel pointed directly at Dean’s heart.

“Dean, what the fuck?!,” you exclaimed, feeling heat bloom across your face and your chest as you turned around to hide yourself and rifle through your stuff again. Dean chuckled nonchalantly as if this was totally not awkward, and sat down on the edge of your bed. You yanked the first clean thing out of your bag and threw it on. Of course it had to be one of the shirts you had stolen from his bag when he was in the shower a couple weeks ago because it had been getting to the point that you guys really had to get around to doing some laundry. The threadbare Alice In Chains t-shirt fell at about mid-thigh on you. Dean considered telling you how much he appreciated the sight of you in his clothes but didn’t; he just shifted a little to make sure you didn’t see the the jut of his hardening cock in his slacks. 

“What're you doing here?,” you asked, cursing in your head about not having clean clothes, feeling too flustered to continue what was clearly a fruitless hunt for clean pants. 

“Came up to check on you,” he answered, watching you intently as you sat down at the head of the bed and threw a pillow onto your lap. 

“Mhm, thanks. I'm alright, just tired,” you lied easily, knowing that even if he left you wouldn't be able to fall asleep any time soon. He smiled and stood up, going to remove his sports coat and draping it over the back of the armchair in the corner of the room. Something in his too green eyes made you squeeze your thighs together as he rolled his sleeves up. What the fuck was happening? 

You willed yourself to stay in control and found your voice, “getting comfortable, man?” 

“Stop that,” he returned, climbing back onto the bed and leaning his back on the headboard on the side opposite you.

“Stop what?” 

“You called me dude earlier, and man just now,” he explained, “don't like it.” 

You quirked an eyebrow at him and smirked, “what would you like me to call you then? Sir?” 

And you swear you were just trying for playful banter but the look Dean shot you made you swallow hard, want twisting in your gut. 

“I don't think we’re quite there, kitten,” he returned, voice low and rumbling, the sound making your body go hot, “not yet at least.” He reached over towards you and you flinched hard, startled.

“Relax,” he said, looking thoroughly pleased by how affected you were by him. He used his thumb to coax your lip out from where it was trapped between your teeth. 

Silently you acknowledged that this was hands down the hottest interaction you'd had with Dean, hell, with any man, and he had barely touched you. But the exchange with the bartender and the hot shower you had finished just a few moments prior to Dean wandering into your room had lifted the brazenness that you'd had down in the bar, and had cleared most of the fuzziness caused by the alcohol. Your gut was telling you to pump the brakes, find your grimiest pair of jeans, throw them on and throw him out. 

But Christ. He was everything right now. He looked fucking sinful with his shirt sleeves cuffed up to the elbow and you freakin praised whatever gods gave you the idea to ask the boys to dress nicely tonight, and also whatever gods that got them to actually do it. He was looking at you like he could devour you and holy shit, you thought that was the best idea ever. 

“Sweetness…,” he said softly, tone gruff and almost pleading. He was leaning toward you, had his finger crooked under your chin and was lifting your face to his. Your heart was beating so fast you could feel it in your throat, forcing whatever breath you could find out in little pants. “Tell me to stop and I will, babygirl.” 

The tiny part of your brain that had not been overcome by lust and want and need screamed for him to stop, but everything else, every nerve ending, every inch of skin, every ounce of red hot blood, and every frenzied palpitation of your heart sang for you to meet him halfway and tongue at his beautiful mouth, crawl into his lap and grind down onto him. 

Not for the first time tonight, you thought to yourself, what the fuck is happening right now? 

And Dean must have been thinking along the same lines because just a second later you heard him mumble under his breath, “Holy shit.” The sound of his voice, the awe-filled incredulity in his tone, made your heart flutter and you stopped just shy of meeting his lips, turning your head to the side and resting your forehead against his. Your disbelief that this was actually happening made you laugh a little breathlessly, your eyes squeezed shut. 

“What?,” he asked quietly, his lips ghosting across your cheek. His skin on yours, coupled with the barest scratch of day old scruff, made your body flush with need, liquid want pumping hot through your veins. And this was just cheek to cheek, innocent by some measure, in comparison to the scenarios racing through your head right now. You couldn’t even begin to imagine how you would feel bare chest to bare chest, or with his cock sheathed deep inside of you, his fingers digging into your hips.

“What're we doing, Dean?” 

“Well,” he breathed, pausing to press a warm kiss to the skin just below your ear, “nothing yet.” 

You fought a moan and made a tsk sound instead before saying, breathily, “you know what I mean, sweetheart.” 

“Mmm,” he murmured, the sound thick with appreciation, “I like Deano, but I could get used to sweetheart.” 

He peppered more kisses along your jawline and you subconsciously pulled your hair around to your opposite shoulder to accommodate him. 

God, you'd give an arm and a leg to be able to just sit here and bask in his attention, listen to him make all these breathless sounds, and murmur all these heated promises, and all his nicknames, just for you. 

But then you remembered that none of it was just for you. It wasn't as if you resented him for not being a virgin; if he were it would have been a shame for women as an entirety, but (and you chastised yourself for even thinking thoughts like these) even though you couldn't begrudge him his past, you wanted to be the last girl to have him. And you knew it would be a cold day in hell before Dean Winchester settled down and committed.

“Dean, stop,” you finally managed to say. From the look on his face you could tell it was a struggle for him to pull away, and the realization made you feel deliciously wanted, but you knew at your core that this couldn't, or at least shouldn’t, happen. 

“What's the matter? I thought -,” he paused, looking dejected but thoughtful. 

“We can’t do this,” you explained, standing from your spot to put some distance between you and him. You grabbed a pair of unwashed pajama shorts from the mess of clothes in your bag and pulled them on hastily, trying to regain some composure and calm your frenzied heartbeat. You needed to get some sort of control over the situation again. Dean slid across the bed with ease, standing in front of you, gaze all heat and want. 

“Why the hell not?,” he asked softly, reaching for your hands with both of his, lacing your fingers together, “I like you, you like me. What’s the problem?”

He was staring at your joined hands with utmost interest, like the sight of them twined together was the most fascinating and startling thing he had ever seen. He looked so genuinely awed by the contact that it made your heart ache. How could you deny him when he was so good at looking at you and every little thing you did and allowed him to do like he worshipped you?

“The problem is,” you took a deep breath here, “it’s not enough.”


End file.
